"I'm a fat ass - and something has been eating me lately." - A Horror Short Story

 I was a chubby kid. Not fat, but just fat enough to crease my sides and belly when I bent over. As a child, even through pre-puberty, people found it a cute trait. People would poke and prod me. "He sure can eat," they'd say. "How healthy! You don't miss a meal, do you?" I always thought it was fucking rude, but hey.

Once I hit puberty, the shirt started staying on in the swimming pool. It made me a target instead of hiding my shame. My titties were bully magnets. Like a fuckin' tractor beam - I suffered through day after day of cruel, shitty tweens poking fun at me for being a bit bigger than the other kids. Bruises, bloody noses. I started fighting back, but stopped for fear of no one paying attention to me at all.

In high school, I was suddenly popular. Chris Farley-kind-of popular. Laugh at the fat guy. That song and dance carried me well enough - got laid, went to some parties, hung out with a decent crowd. But the second high school ended, so did the parties, the friends, the sex. And I would fall deeper and deeper in to a very lonely depression.

Food has always been my passion. Bad day at work? Big Mac's got my back. Girl doesn't like me? What's up, poutine!? Duck confit, oh me oh my! The calories fueled my soul. Filling an empty hole with anything that'll fit. My ass be damned - I was filling that sucker.

Here I am - Mike, 27.

I woke up one morning and food started losing its luster. The shine was starting to dull. I ate my morning breakfast omelette - four eggs, five pieces of link sausage, mixed in with hashbrowns and pancake mix, a dollop of heavy whipping cream for a sweet twist. Sometimes I'd chop up a few strawberries - doctor said I need my fruit. Wash it all down with a two liter of Diet Cola (save the calories, right?) for good measure. It didn't do it for me. Normally I could pass out in my chair with a smile on my face, at least for a couple hours, before the darkness started creeping back in.

Six hundred pounds is not a good look. I sat in front of the mirror and spread my arms out to either side and examined my skin-wings. Long, rounded, droopy masses of flesh punctuated by red lightning bolts and bloody pock-marks from where the skin is too thin. My beard was like an unkempt lawn of salted earth - wide berths between each strand of hair, exposing my double-chin. My belly, wide and arching over my pubis, which hung over my dick like a fleshy codpiece. I had to lift it to piss. I started tearing up.

And finally, I gave up. My doctor told me I had to make a change, or I'd die. I told him I wanted to die. I swore I would keep eating. I declined bariatric surgery. Doc made me promise to try antidepressants, and I did. My world changed.

I started losing weight. Lots of it. And even though my excess skin was still there, I was down two hundred pounds.

I got my confidence up enough to start dating. I joined an online dating site. I figured, hey - I'm still fat as fuck and look like a melting pig, but maybe, just maybe, someone can see through that. I was feeling better than ever and actually wanted to start meeting people.

A coffee here, a beer there - mostly bigger girls - mostly boring. Not that big girls are boring. I just wasn't hitting the stride. Afterall, I was practically new to real dating, and I'm sure a lot of them were, too. But then, it happened.

Quinn.

Her hair was as red as Cheryl Blossom's, and tight curls bounced down on either side of her round face. Her big lips pursed when she said the M in my name. She was all of a hundred pounds soaking wet, and so curvy you got dizzy. And here she was - with me! ME! Paying attention to me. She's gorgeous. And she likes me. Holy shit. She loves my weight loss journey.

As the dates flew by, and believe me, I was in utter-fucking-disbelief she kept calling me back, she'd start asking me more about my weight. Why I decided to lose it, what my heaviest was, what I want to get down to. She's ordering all these fatty foods for me - and paying. I keep declining, I keep telling her she doesn't have to pay - she doesn't listen. For fear of losing her, I started eating. She would grip the folds of my fat and moan. Her nipples would get hard.

When she moved in, she'd make my old favorite breakfast. She never at the same as me. I'd have sixteen pancakes, she'd have a banana and plain greek yogurt. I'd eat two big macs, she'd have a piece of grilled chicken and rice. I started gaining weight rapidly. I was officially off the wagon.

That's the heart trouble started.

After passing out twice, we went to the doctor. After being down two hundred, I was back up a hundred and fifty. The doctor warned I'd die, but sooner this time - my heart was under such stress that he demanded I do surgery to stop the gain once and for all. She declined for me. I said I'd think about it. After we left, she told me if I ever got the surgery, she'd leave me.

The sex was great. Wild, primal. Difficult for me. There was always food before. She wanted me incapacitated. So full it was hard to move. Once she accomplished that, she'd work her way around my body, eventually finishing up and laying with me while I held back the urge to vomit.

She demanded I weighed in. I cried. I told her it wasn't going to be good. She told me she wanted me to be so big I couldn't move. My legs were already swollen and losing feeling. Eventually, they lost all feeling. I panicked and started doing bed exercises – waving my arms in circles, like kids did in elementary school P.E, bending at the waist... anything to start burning calories. I didn't want to lose my legs.

“If I ever see you do that again,” she said, while she walked in on me, “I'm leaving you. This is how this works. I have needs.” I could only muster up a, “Yes, dear.”

I opened the laptop and saw my unemployment was running out – I can't believe it had been so long. With the way she was feeding me, I'd be out of an apartment in no time. We had already been eating this skunk meat she claimed was cheap, trying to cut corners. We knew this day was coming up, but not so soon.

I propped myself up as best I could. She's at work. I haven't stood in a month. As I slowly scoot my fat fucking ass to the edge of the bed, I brace my feet on the floor. I can't feel them, and I haven't as much as seen my feet or legs in a long time.

That's when I finally saw, bracing my body against the wall to shimmy toward the door. I started tugging at the white cloth I saw covering my legs. As I pulled, it kept coming out. It started to get red and slightly green. There was no leg. It had been carved up, stuffed with gauze. I vomit dark blood and collapse under my weight. I begin to crawl as best I can toward the kitchen.

I'm gagging, choking on throw-up. It burned my throat like I swallowed a lit match. Grunting, groaning, crying, I needed a phone. I manage to scoot to the fridge, and upon opening it, I vomit again. There was my leg meat, partially wrapped in saran – the muscles separated in a plastic container, seasoned in salts and herbs.

“I'm gonna make dinner!” Quinn stepped through the door.

I attempted to scramble to my feet. I managed to stand up, and walking was like having two peg legs. The pain came rushing in, and I could start to feel the fluids start to fill up and gush, as the weight of my body on what was left of my legs cracked the scabs opened. My girth carried me eight or nine feet, and I tumbled in to Quinn.

Her body was absorbed in my folds. The stench of freshly exposed skin after weeks of laying in bed, coupled with the pus of the bedsores sent my body in a dizzying flurry of retching , and she struggled for air. Clawing, screaming and gasping. I heard bones crack. I grabbed her purse, yoinked out her cell phone and somehow between the pain blurring my vision and her screeching, I was able to dial 911, and passed out.

The doctors are pretty sure I'm going to be okay, though I'm losing my legs. They seem to think I'll be able to lose weight, and I'm in line to get bariatric surgery, once we get my weight down. And once the police investigation finishes up, I'll start looking for work. Maybe I’ll start a weight loss blog.

I don't think I'll be dating for a good, long while.

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